


Part 2: Machine

by oliveordie



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wrestling, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, POV Second Person, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliveordie/pseuds/oliveordie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan is broad and fit and toned. He’s a mountain of muscle over which smooth, tanned skin is stretched. You make a quiet whimper he doesn’t acknowledge at the sight of his bare chest. You’ve only ever seen him in the singlets he wears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part 2: Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Original working title was ‘Hunger.’ Going to save that one for later.
> 
> Continuation of previous work '7 Stages.'

It is hard to see through the sheets of rain pouring down from the sky. The storm was creating such a holy racket as water pelted the windshield and roof of your car. If you didn't know better, you would think it was hailing. 

Traffic is at a standstill again. You rub the back of your hand across your forehead out of weary habit. There are vehicles ahead of and behind you. You can make out the suggestions of car shapes in the rain and blurs of color, but no specific details of the other people trapped in this wet hell with you. 

The highway you are on is backed up and everyone is driving too slow for your liking. A news program plays over the crackling speakers of your audio system. The volume is turned down low and you can't make out the words over the sound of the torrential rain. 

Not that it would matter. The speakers in your car have been buzzing and crackling with static over the past few weeks. You really need to get them looked at, with replacement being the most likely result of such a visit to a garage. Technically, you have the money. Stephen had been good to his word. He and John had paid for the purchase of your new camera, and you were under strict orders to send them the bill when the repair service finished with your D5200. 

How you were going to get the camera back to you from the shop three-hundred miles back east was a whole other problem you preferred to not dwell on. Your favorite problem (and calling it your favorite was a stretch - it was just the one that you were obsessing over the most) was Stephen.

The morning after the incredible sex has been awkward to say the least. He didn't even kiss you goodbye. The strained conversation between you two had centered primarily on the new and broken Nikons. He had left. You had showered. The end. 

Since then, he hasn't spoken to you, save for the casual exchanges of pleasantries designed for impersonal chitchat sessions between people who haven't seen each other's privates. Objectively, it's not a bad thing. He didn't really give you the time of day before. Polite recognition is better than none at all, you tell yourself. 

But an interesting phenomenon had been happening. You had also been on the receiving end of attention from the other Superstars. While no one had said anything negative to you, rooms would grow quiet as you entered and you caught a few guys evaluating you with their eyes. When you had caught doing it, they had been quick to look away.

The red Ford F150 ahead of you began to inch forward. You recognized the vehicle because your ex had one. As your Subaru crept along, a flashing sign at the right side of the road came into view.

ROAD OUT, DETOUR AHEAD. 

You inwardly groan and continue to follow the flow of traffic to an off ramp. You're hopeful that it leads you to someplace dry.

*

Bubbah's Diner and Truck Stop was a massive building, flanked by large stretches of parking lot on either side, which was currently crowded with 18-wheelers and the cars of displaced travelers. You drove up row after row of vehicles, looking for an empty parking spot. You find a place to wedge your Forester far from the restaurant.

It is going to be a very wet walk to shelter. You wonder if it is even worth it, but you are starting to feel hungry. That makes the decision for you. You turn to the passenger seat and make sure the contents of your camera bag are secure. You do the same for your purple leather satchel. Both could provide a level of water resistance, but they weren't build for excessive exposure to raining conditions. You struggle into your red rain jacket. The windows of your car have fogged up, so thankfully no one can see you wrestle with the sleeves.

At the last moment you try to shove the camera back under the front of your coat. It's a tight squeeze, but it fits. You frown. 'Pregnant' was not a look you were going for. 

Ah, well, it can't be helped, you think. 

And then you pray that no one you know sees you. 

"I'm not going to get soaked," you say, trying to convince yourself that you're ready to make the run. You take a deep, bracing breath before shoving open the door and facing the rain.

You make it to the restaurant with what you feel is a land-speed record but you're still uncomfortably wet from the knees down. You let the purple satchel slip from your protective, one arm clutch. 

You're about to liberate the camera case from underneath your jacket when you scan the room out of habit. It's teeming with activity. Mothers are chasing damp children. 

Teenagers are lounging in booths and trying to out-cool each other. Families are sitting close to one another, living in their own worlds as they pick at their lunch plate specials. 

Scattered among the people are your coworkers from the road and media crew. And of course, there are Superstars.

Your eyes settle on a square table with Stephen, John, and Matt. Stephen had apparently noticed your entrance. He especially noticed the bump under your coat. He's looking uncomfortable. You push the camera bag out of your jacket. John says something to him and he looks away.

Men are idiots, you decide. 

You sling the bag straps over your shoulder. Eager to show you're not bothered by anything Stephen could possibly throw at you, you start to look for a seat. There are no empty tables in the place, you realize, and resign yourself to asking someone if they wouldn't mind to sharing theirs. 

There is a nearly empty table in the same section where Stephen and company are sitting. Only one person is occupying it - Ryan Reeves. 

He is talking with a small boy who is bouncing from foot-to-foot in excitement. Ryan signs a slip of paper and hands it to the child. The boy gives him a toothy grin and skips back to his mother, who watched the exchange from a corner booth.

You move in quickly before any one else has a chance to monopolize the moment. You always forget how big he is. Ryan is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed in front of him. His legs are stretched out beneath the chair. You start to change your mind about asking to sit with him but he has noticed your approach. You bit your lip.

"Hello," you say when you're close enough. 

"Hi." He looks you over. It's not a lewd kind of look, but he was definitely thinking something. 

You tug a lock of hair. It's your nervous habit. "Do you mind if I join you? The other tables are kind of full," you say. The words pour out of you. 

Ryan shifts in his chair and gestures to an empty one across from him. You drop your bags on the table and shuck off your rain jacket. Ryan has his phone in his hand but he's not doing anything with it. In fact, the only thing he's paying attention to is you. For some reason this makes you second-guess your outfit of khaki cargo pants and a tight, black Wonder Woman t-shirt. Your hair is an mess. You can just imagine the frizz haloing your head. Ryan is wearing a paint-splattered Pantera shirt. You can't exactly see the pants, but you're guessing he's in a pair of torn jeans and black work boots. It's what he usually wears. 

The chair scrapes the floor as you pull it out. You sit in it, and tuck your legs under the seat. Even after moving to accommodate you at the table, Ryan still took up so much of the room underneath that you didn't dare to extend your legs. 

"Some weather we're having," was the only thing you could think to say. He nodded and checked his phone.

"You were really great last night," you say. And it was true. You were the ringside photographer so you caught all of the action. Ryan had a tag match with Stephen against two members of 3MB. He was really on his game and delivered a powerful performance that was both fearsome and alluring.

Great, now you're thinking of Ryan being alluring, you think. Stop thinking about his alluring qualities. He's looking at you. Stop it. 

"Thanks," he says. 

You nod and gulp down air. "Are there no waitresses in this place?" you ask him. 

"You place your order at the counter," Ryan says. His phone makes the unmistakable sound of a Transformer transforming. You can't help the giggle that escapes from you. You hope Ryan is a big secret Transformers geek. You grab your wallet from your bag as he checks his phone again. 

"Would you like anything?" you say. You were almost too afraid to ask, given his legendary appetite. But he let you sit at his table and he's tolerating your presence. If those things don't merit an award of some kind, you're not sure what does.

He answers immediately. "No." He's tapping into his phone. "But thank you," he says as you head to the counter. You place an order with a bored-looking blonde for a hot tea with lemon and honey and a bowl of fruit. She has you wait for your items. You finger through a pile of brochures advertising local businesses, humming Bohemian Rhapsody to yourself.

Matt's familiar laugh catches your attention and you peek over your shoulder. He's talking to him but you can't hear the words. Ryan's back is to you and Matt is gesturing at Stephen. The blonde returns to the counter and passes you a tall foam cup with a fluttering tea tag dangling from the side. She also hands off a white takeout box to you. 

The girl apologizes. "We're out of dinnerware," she explains. "There's a fork in the box." And with a turn of her heel she went back through the kitchen door behind the counter. 

After a deep breath, you walk back to the counter. Matt doesn't notice your approach. He's animatedly speaking, waving his hands about as if to illustrate his words. 

"Yeah bro, you wanna be careful, she's a bit of a hoski."

You aren't sure how, but you know he's referring to you. You bite back the feeling of rage that's starting to overtake your mind.

Men are idiots, you remind yourself. You approach them.

"Anyone I know?" you ask with enough false cheer to kill one of Santa's elves at the Mall of America a week before Christmas. Matt jumps at your voice. You brush past him to return to your seat. Ryan says nothing, but he looks as if he's gauging you for a reaction. 

Matt appears to be very uncomfortable. "Uh, no, no I don't think so," he says, stumbling over his words. 

You smile superficially. It's one that doesn't reach your eyes. You've been told by family member's it's one of your more unsettling facial expressions. Matt shrinks away. 

"I'll catch you later bro," he says to Ryan before briskly retreating to his table. You make a point to watch him leave, and you are sure to catch Stephen's eye before looking away. But you aren't smiling at him then. You're glaring. 

You've lost most of your appetite, but you owe it to yourself to at least pick over the fruit. "What did he say to you about me?" you ask Ryan, hoping you sounded nonchalant. 

The cool facade of Ryan cracked. His face was marked by the tell-tale signs of hesitation. He looks down at his hands for a moment before re-establishing eye contact with you. You braced yourself by holding your breath.

"He said that according to Farrelly you were an easy lay, and that I shouldn't hitch my horse to your wagon," he said. 

There was more. You could just tell. "And?"

"'Too many cocks spoil the broth.'" 

"Oh." You folded your hands and placed them in your lap. "I seem to have a reputation that I haven't exactly earned," you say to Ryan.

He shrugs. "It doesn't matter what they think," Ryan states. You're trying to read him, but he's not giving you much to work with. He tilts his head slightly, waiting for you to respond. You swallow hard, feeling pressured under the scrutiny of his unwavering blue eyes.

"Of course it doesn't matter what they think," you say. You free your fork from its plastic wrapper and use it to push chunks of cantaloupe around the foam carton. "The ignorant opinions of moronic slut-shaming fucktrucks matter little to me." You may be looking down at your food as you say it, but you know your head is high and your tone is unyielding. "Considering it was just the one cock, I wouldn't say my broth is off the menu yet."

Ryan chuckles. It surprises you, but you don't want to seem too pleased with yourself. 

"Pity I don't kiss and tell," he says gruffly, "otherwise I'd help you earn that reputation."

You feel your face heat up. And you know he's still staring at you. You avoid his gaze and look out the window. The rain has started to let up and you can actually make out distinct shapes of the neighboring buildings. You notice the Super 8 across the road and swallow hard. 

Ryan laughs again and you smile in spite of yourself.

Outside, two highway patrol cars roll up to the restaurant. The driver of one exits his vehicle. With much drama, he throws open the doors and announces to everyone inside: "The water has receded, folks. The highway's open again!" This rouses a loud cheer from most of the room. People start getting to their feet and donning their coats. 

"Now everyone needs to drive safe and don't rush as you're hitting the road," the patrolman calls out before turning on his heel and going back out to his cruiser.

You look around, trying to be casual about it. You see Stephen, John and Matt readying themselves to leave. 

"He likes you," Ryan states.

You bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from laughing bitterly. Ryan stares at your mouth and continues. "He's been stealing glances over here the second you sat down at this table."

"Why would he do that?"

"As I said, he likes you," Ryan says with some irritation. You got the feeling he wasn't accustomed to repeating himself.

"He's not acting like he likes me," you say.

"How do you feel about him?" You're taken aback by Ryan's sudden interest in your love life. 

"Awkwardly." You almost forgot that you had tea. There was a wedge of lemon with your fruit. Ryan watches you squeeze the lemon into the dark amber liquid. It had cooled down rapidly to lukewarm, so you skip adding the honey.

"How do you feel about me?" you ask him between sips.

"I don't really know you," is all he says, but you can tell he wants to say more.

"Yet," you add for him.

His eyes narrow, but he provides no further explanation. The reason why becomes evident when John is at the side of your table.

"You crazy kids enjoying this fine weather we're having?" he says. You can immediately tell John's trying too hard. Out of the corner of your eye you notice Stephen staring in your direction. You keep your focus on John and Ryan.

"I've lived through worse," you say, trying to sound indifferent.

"I hate the rain," Ryan states. You mentally add that to the list of things you know about him, bringing the grand total of facts to four. "How do people stand all this water?" he continues.

"My experience leads me to believe excessive wetness isn't always a bad thing," you quip. There was no mistaking your meaning. John's surprised expression gave you a surge of satisfaction. Ryan smirks.

"I really ought to be going," John says. "See you a few cities over!" he calls back as he walks past Stephen and Matt and right out the door of the truck stop. Stephen seems momentarily alarmed. He and Matt follow their friend.

Once they were out of earshot you laugh. 

"You've given them something to talk about," Ryan says. He takes a gulp from his water bottle. 

You dismiss his statement. "They were already talking about me." You devour a few grapes and chunks of pineapple.

The restaurant empties quickly as people are eager to continue their journeys. Ryan makes no move to follow, however. He rubs his eyes with the forefinger and thumb of his left hard. He looks tired. 

"Haven't been sleeping well," he preemptively answers your question.

You understood that feeling. "I sleep the worst when I travel," you say. You nod to the motel. "You could catch a few hours before hitting the road again."

Ryan makes a noise of agreement and rises to his feet. He gives you an appraising look. "You tired, too?" he asks in that low voice. 

There was only one strawberry among the mixed fruit, and you chose now to eat it. You chewed it thoughtfully. "Are you inviting me to a motel room, Ryan?"

"I guess I am."

You run your hand through your hair and bite your lip again. His eyes flicker with interest. "I'm not quite tired," you say, "but I'm sure I can get there."

*

Ryan enters the motel room first. He carefully sets his black duffle bag down on the floor by the bureau. You let the door swing shut behind you. Ryan shrugs off his  
heavy leather jacket and hangs it in the open entry way closet. You didn't bring anything with you except your camera bag and your satchel. You tuck those out of the way by the writing desk. 

You turn back to survey the room and catch Ryan observing you. He has moved to the bed and was sitting on the hotel double, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. God, he takes up so much room. He's easily got a foot on you and over a hundred pounds. 

You've seen leave a wake of destruction in his path whenever he climbs into the ring. When you've been ringside, snapping pictures, you've seen the mat shake under his feet. You'd be a liar if you didn't admit that you've had a passing thought or two of bedding him. 

"Which side?" he interrupts your contemplation. "Of the bed," he clarifies.

You stretch, trying your hand at being coquettish. "Bed time already?" Your t-shirt lifts, exposing a flash of skin below your navel. 

Ryan cracks his knuckles, all the while watching you. "I said I wasn't tired, didn't I?"

"You expect me to tire you out?"

You wind a strand of your hair around a finger. "I don't know if you can," you say, challenging him. 

He doesn't seem to like that. Or maybe he did. "Strip for me," he orders.

You pout. After a heartbeat, you take off your shirt. You don't make a display of yourself. No seductive smile plays upon your lips. The Wonder Woman shirt is removed cleanly and tossed to the side. You stand unapologetically, head high with your hands on your hips. You return his intense stare. 

You're hoping he doesn't expect you to be submissive. You aren't in the mood to be docile.

"The pants," he says. 

You kick off your soggy Reeboks. You make a fuss out of moving the desk chair aside, leaning against the desk itself, and unbuttoning your khakis. They're a bit loose at the hips so they drop to the floor with no trouble. You step out of the fabric pooling at your feet. You're down to a pair of seafoam green and bubblegum pink knee-high socks and your mismatched underthings. 

You ease yourself up onto the cold surface of the desktop.

"Now strip," you say to Ryan.

You wait for him to argue but the exchange doesn't happen. Instead he surprises you and slowly rises. In a fluid motion he pulls his Pantera shirt over his head. Instead of discarding it, he folds it neatly and places it on the corner of the bed. 

Ryan is broad and fit and toned. He's a mountain of muscle over which smooth, tanned skin is stretched. You make a quiet whimper he doesn't acknowledge at the sight of his bare chest. You've only ever seen him in the singlets he wears. 

He sits back down on the bed. Acting as if you're not even there, he deftly unlaces his work boots and takes them off. The socks come off too. Ryan sets the socks on top of the shirt and lines his boots up with the side of the bed.

He isn't looking at you. His hands are at his belt. There is a brief scrape of metal as he undoes the buckle. The button pop and the zipper comes next. Standing again, he  
sheds his pants, folds them, and adds them to his pile of clothes. 

He's facing you. The only thing between you is six feet of empty air. 

Without ceremony, his black boxers come off. 

You're overcome by a feeling of desire with a pang of fear. And you're vaguely annoyed that you have more pubic hair than he does.Ryan reads the emotions on your face. He bridges the space between you in two strides. His hands spread wide your thighs to accommodate his mass. Instead of kissing you on the mouth, he tips your head back and presses his lips right below your ear. The flick of his tongue sends a chill down your spine. 

You wrap your arms around Ryan's neck as he busies himself kissing and licking a path down your body. He finishes undressing you as he travels, letting your underwear fall from his large hands to the floor. 

You feel his teeth nibble your skin, but after each light bite he places a lingering kiss or a glancing lick. The farther down he goes the more unhinged you feel. When he's finally kneeling between your open legs, he kisses your inner thighs on both sides, his facial hair brushing against your sensitive skin, with no indication of going further.

Ryan is a picture of composure and you're trembling.

"Please, Ryan. Oh, God please!" You seize his head and steer his mouth to your core. Ryan takes your direction and licks and sucks at you. His strong arms are wrapped around your pale thighs. The longer he works his mouth the closer you get to the end. You want to come so badly that when the tide rushes your shore you don't fight the sensation. You let your orgasm overtake you.

But it doesn't stop, Ryan's mouth or the orgasm. He keeps going as you climax, using his considerable power to keep you from bucking him away. You don't stop him though, so as the first orgasm ends his actions push you to another. You shriek for him to stop. 

Thankfully he does.

You let go on the grip you have on his bare head. He wipes his face on the inside of your right thigh. You're a panting mess. You lean forward, your hair falling into your face.

"Fuck," you murmur. It was mostly to yourself. 

But Ryan didn't see it that way. "I plan to," he answers. He scoops you into his arms, and delivers you to the bed. Your mind is so too foggy comprehend him lying you out. He rummages through his bag for a condom, finds on, and puts it on. 

If you were in your right mind, you would be concentrating on how large Ryan was. You'd probably be worrying right now over fit logistics. However, the only thing on you're aware of is the memory of the exceptional pleasure you had just received.

You're afterglow ends when Ryan joins you on the bed. He's a man of power, a human machine, so when he rolls you onto your knees, it's with little effort. He pushes your shoulders down, which causes your backside to lift up high. Ryan's positions himself behind you. 

The noise he makes just then displaces any fears you may have. It's clearly a noise of appreciation and want. You reach for one of the bed's pillows and clutch it to your naked chest. You rest your head on the cool fabric of the white pillowcase.

You moan involuntarily and he rubs the head of his erection against you. All after effects from the pleasure you had received previously have dissipated. You are left with the distinct wish to be taken again.

He hesitates. 

"Ruin me," you say. You know the moment you utter those works that they carry the implication to be final ones.

There is something about Ryan's quiet laugh that further wets your loins. He spreads your folds before easing you back onto his member. You're wet enough to allow for a smooth glide, but the feeling of him in you causes you to gasp. 

One of his hands is gripping your waist. The other strokes your back. 

You would admire his control if you could think beyond the fact that he was slowly filling you in every sense of the word. 

"Harder," you half whisper and half moan. He's hitting places that make you shudder. You're on the brink of pain, but it's not the bad kind of hurt. 

He ignores your plea and keeps his slow pace. 

"Ryan, harder."

Again, he disregards your fervor. 

He's pushing you to the edge where sanity ends and incoherence begins. Just when you think you can't bear the hot ache he's forcing you to experience, he grabs your arms right above the elbow and lets himself go. 

As he roughly thrusts into you, you hear his pleased rumble. He's enjoying the his domination of your body. You like it too. So much for not being docile. He keeps having you like this, showing no sign of end. He varies the tempo of his movement, as if he's moving you both to music only he can hear.

Tension is building inside of you, but it feels different than before. You're not far from experiencing fear as your emotions begin to overtake you.

He releases your arms and you fall forward, even though he's still in you. His hands are back at your waist.

"Touch yourself," he says. He's starting to sound haggard. It's not a request.

"I won't last," you promise him.

"Do it."

You do as you're told. You support your body with an arm bent as you reach between your legs. You're a bundle of raw nerves and the added element of your own hands is making it worse. You feel like a wire pulled too taunt. But you keep touching, slowly. Your hand and his cock were pushing you to a frenzied crescendo. When you hit the peak of rapture, you had enough sense to jerk back and grab Ryan at his wrists.

"Stop," you plead. 

You didn't hear your own voice over the pounding in your head and the orgasm that rips through you, but your word did reach Ryan. 

He stops and gently eases out of you. You collapse into the pillow you are holding.

Ryan brushes his hand along your thigh. "Are you okay?" he asks. 

You nod. You're embarrassed. You look at him over your shoulder. 

Concern is written on his face and his body was rigid. "Did I hurt you?" 

You can sense fear from him. You throw the pillow aside and get to your knees. You go to him, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. You rest your cheek against his bearded one. He encloses you in his arms and holds you there. 

"It was too intense," you explain. It's the only way you can give definition to what you experienced. He smooths your hair. He is still hard, you feel it pressing into your stomach. Your mouth finds his, and you finally kiss.

He's gentle and his hands don't wander. As you're kissing, you're feeling turned on again. Ryan is delicious in every sense of the word and you need him.

"Your turn," you say.

He allows you to push him down on his back. It's more of a push, pull, and gesture thing. You're relieved he seemed to know what you were getting at. You lift your leg over his body and he helps you straddle him. You're still quite wet. He guides you down onto him until he enters you again. 

You bear down on him. He moans. He's not gripping you, but his hands are on your thighs. He drags his short nails across your skin. You kiss Ryan again, biting down on his bottom lip. 

He really likes that.

It was a challenge at first to get the flow of riding him. He aided you in that, and you both figured out how to move in harmony. Ryan let you take lead, surrendering to you. You nuzzled his ear and almost laughed when he purred like a large jungle cat.

The tension inside of you was building up again, but this time you welcome it. His hands explore and caress your naked body and occasionally you lean in to kiss his lips. 

You ride him to climax and he comes right after you.

You didn't cuddle after the way you had with Stephen. Instead, you lie next to him, your head resting on his shoulder, and your hair fanned out behind you. 

He drifts off to sleep.

You wait for Ryan's breaths to become slow and even before you slide out of bed. You quietly dress and leave him to his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd for content not typos. Those are all mine.
> 
> Original posting here - <http://anonno1.tumblr.com/post/45553788181/machine>


End file.
